I was visited by demons last night.
I know. When I woke up, I did not want the day to begin.
I know. You do not know.
You say I’m insane, but I know.
My mind toured through French countryside
with furry memories of my body
being punctured by these collections of tiger claws
sitting on bookshelves, attached to a man, Professor Ersticken,
who sat behind the curtain and told me I’m empty.
All of my soul resists the day.
It’s my sickness, I say.
You are a terrible slob, I say.
Fuck your foul mood and let’s do the deal, I say.
All of this resistance tells me I’m not empty.
I’m filled with bad electrical connections. I’m broken.
All day long, I watch from the ragged ceiling tiles,
wanting to laugh but knowing it’s not funny.
I see this dead Russian doll with fuzzy hair at a wood desk
with yellow globs coming out his ears and spastic hands
directing the chaos and not doing a damned thing.
motors run the machines inside my mind
telling me in repetitive stanzas,
you suck, you’re worthless.
It’s my inside mantra.
My outside mantra is glorious;
are a loving human being,
and god loves you.
The outside mantra rides giant Clydesdales,
enjoys Pyrrhic celebratory dances
with no stories to narrate or embellish
while the inside mantra wins the wars
like the demons kill the humans
in earthquakes and genocides,
the same demons who visited
so wickedly last night.